by Mari Labbee
“Smaller than Pegottie?”
He nodded. “For me, it wasn’t that much of a change. Small-town Iowa isn’t that different.”
“What brought you out here from Iowa?”
“I always wanted to live near the sea. And there was no chance of that there. So when the opportunity to get on out came along, I got on out.”
“You just came out here with no idea what you’d find?”
Still nodding, he said, “I knew I’d find what I was looking for eventually. And then I found it.”
He was adventurous; she could never do that. But then it struck her: hadn’t she just done that very thing?
“Don’t get me wrong,” he said, juggling to keep his all-American together. “Iowa is beautiful. Rolling hills, green fields, quiet. But…farming…well, it just wasn’t for me.”
“Was it hard to leave?” she asked.
He thought about what made him leave. He thought about Susan and his father. Like a movie, it rolled past him, reaching its conclusion…here…now.
“It’s always hard to leave behind everything you’ve known, but I was ready. I’d been out of school a couple of years—I’d have to say that for me, no, it wasn’t too hard.” He paused. “But for those like my mother and…um…most everyone there, it would be hard. They’re all fourth-and fifth-generation farmers. It’s kind of the thing there. It’s really the only family history we have.” He thought of Uncle Ernest but left him out of the story for now. “And most everyone else I know has the same history, all my friends. I was the oddball.”
Bri did some quick math. By her estimate, he was probably around twenty-seven or eight. Not that it mattered, but she’d been wondering.
“Do you go back to visit often, or do they come here?” Bri asked.
“Not often. But I was just there for my father’s funeral. It’s the reason I couldn’t start work immediately.”
“Oh. I’m so sorry, Matt. I hope I didn’t…”
He wasn’t about to go into any conversation about his father or what was going on in Iowa. He needed to change the subject.
It was evident the conversation wasn’t going where he’d like, and she thought of what to say to change the subject. God knows she understood not wanting to talk about something, but at the same time, she felt a pang of envy, wishing for what he had—family. She quickly jumped to another question.
“Well, I know you live on board a boat. How exactly did that happen?”
It was like witnessing a transformation. He smiled wide, and his eyes shone.
“Ah, that.”
Out came the story about Darrell and the circumstances that led him to the Audrey Natalia.
Darrell was a friend—well, not a friend but more of an acquaintance—of John Domke. And he’d been going through a nasty divorce. He bought the Audrey Natalia, a wreck of a boat, with the intent of offering it to his soon-to-be ex-wife as part of her settlement. The woman was livid at the thought, exactly the reaction Darrell had wanted. After the divorce, it was time to get rid of her, and John thought Matt might be able to fix her up so Darrell could get a decent price. Instead, Matt offered to buy her.
“So you went from wide-open spaces to a small cabin on a boat.”
He found what she said interesting—partly because it was accurate. He had moved from the wide-open space of the farm to the small cabin of the Audrey Natalia, yet that small space somehow extended out to the edge of the universe. It was the most open space he’d ever known.
“Yeah, I suppose that’s what I did.”
“And when and how did you learn to sail?”
“Lessons, books. As soon as I bought her, I started taking lessons. Read a lot of books, a lot. It took about two years of work before she was ready,” he laughed lightly, thinking about how much he didn’t know about boats when he first started. “When I first put her on the water, I crossed my fingers that she wouldn’t sink to the bottom right then.”
“And she didn’t,” Bri said.
He nodded, smiling as he remembered the day.
Bri imagined that the name for the sailboat must have been someone he knew and wanted to ask. She did so carefully.
“Did you name the Audrey Natalia after someone you know?”
Matt shook his head.
“How did she get the name?” Bri asked.
Another shake and a shrug. “I have no idea. But after a while, I couldn’t think about re-naming her.”
He thought about all the suggestions that came his way while he was working on the restoration; Deck-A-Dence, Aquaholic, he hated those two in particular.
“It’s bad luck to change the name anyway,” he said.
“I’ve been curious about another thing,” she said. “How did you know so much about the wood in the house?”
Well, he supposed he could tell her about Uncle Ernest now.
By the time he finished, she’d been laughing so hard that her burger had gone cold.
“So he just never came back after the war?” she asked.
Matt nodded. “The last anyone heard of him was in a letter to my grandmother. It was sent from Suriname and accompanied the cocobolo jewelry box he sent her.” He laughed, thinking back. “My mother used to accuse me, often enough, of taking after him. Never meant it as a compliment, but I couldn’t think of anyone I’d rather be compared to.”
“And the cocobolo jewelry box he sent to your grandmother sounds so beautiful. Where did it end up?”
He shrugged.
“What a character.”
He wanted to ask her why she had bought the house at Jackal’s Head Point. He knew now that family and friends weren’t the reason she was here. She had virtually no connection to this place.
“So an inn? It’s pretty far away from everything.”
Did she detect a hint of skepticism, or was he just curious? She wasn’t sure which. How had she come up with the idea for an inn? Well, in truth, she couldn’t say. And lately, this had been bothering her. She’d never had the desire to be an innkeeper, never talked about it or thought about it. When she first saw the house, it hadn’t occurred to her. It was only after Dana mentioned it, after she’d bought it, that she first gave it a thought. It hadn’t been the reason she bought the house on Jackal’s Head Point, which was strange; what other reason would one have to buy that house? It seemed all wrong now, red flags flying madly that she should have seen. But the house had beckoned, and she’d come placidly, something she couldn’t explain.
“Um…it just seems like a good place for people who might want to get away. Unwind, you know?”
He wondered if she wasn’t talking about herself.
She laughed nervously. “I have to admit. It’s much more than I expected.”
At Restart, she’d had an arsenal of people at the ready, and she ran a job with someone else’s money and unlimited resources, which was quite a different thing from doing all the work herself on a strict budget. Plus Restart wasn’t in the business of scheduling and working with contractors anyway. They just cleared the way so work could begin. She had been a pencil pusher and had just enough knowledge about building and construction to think she knew enough. She was completely unprepared for what she’d stepped into and silently laughed at her predicament.
“I was a consultant in predevelopment for a company that worked with developers—like the one John just fought off. We worked on the clearances necessary for old buildings and factories so the developers could convert them into lofts or condos. That sort of thing,” she paused. “I foolishly thought I could do most of the work myself at the house. And I didn’t budget for the distance.” She looked down. “I…just…didn’t plan it well.” She took a breath. “But…it’s done now, and I think it’ll work with a good marketing plan.” A hell of a good one, she thought without saying.
This is what he had been seeing in her since he met her. She wasn’t one to wallow, and he liked that. But he also agreed that with her background, she should have known exactly what
she was getting into, and that was a surprise. He also detected something else, more than worry: unease.
A blush had come up on her cheeks. It might have been from the beer, the warmth in the pub, or just the warmth in general—it was still balmy out. He was watching her pick at the last of her salad when she suddenly exclaimed, “Oh, I almost forgot!”
Matt jumped a little in his seat.
“I couldn’t hear you when we were up in the lighthouse earlier.” Her intense blue eyes trained on him.
“Selkie Rock,” he said.
Bri repeated it.
“Yes. It’s an old Scottish word for a kind of a mermaid. ”
“But there was a light out there, right?”
“Actually, it’s a lighthouse, the lighthouse that took the place of the one on Jackal’s Head Point, which wasn’t very good at keeping ships from marooning on the rocks off the coast. The reef stretches out too far. So sometime around 1830 or so, they built the lighthouse on Selkie Rock, and Jackal’s Head Point went dark.”
He seemed to know a lot about the lighthouse, and she wondered why he had never said so when he first came by. She was about to ask when he went on.
“My guess is that construction on the house began around the time the lighthouse stopped operating.”
“How do you know that?” she asked.
“Public records on the Internet. There’s a building plan on record from 1831. I looked up records after I first went out there. It was probably submitted at the time the roof was replaced, which wasn’t too long ago; that’s why I was able to find it.”
Well, that explains why he didn’t mention anything the first day, Bri thought.
“I try pulling up records for the really old houses I’m working on—makes it easier. We were lucky too. Sometimes building records that old aren’t online, but yours was.”
It hadn’t occurred to her to look it up, but then she hadn’t even opened her laptop yet. It was sitting untouched in the corner of her bedroom with the printer and modem, in pieces. Still, it was odd that she hadn’t even thought to look it up.
“Did you come across anything else about the property?”
She was fishing. Chris’s story was front and center; she wanted to know if he’d ever heard anything about it being haunted, but she didn’t want to bring it up.
“Like what?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Anything, any…uh…stories about it.”
“Yes.”
Her breath caught.
“And no. Actually, after I went out there that first day, I remembered someone telling me something about it long ago when I first moved out here. I was doing work at one of the old homes near the shore. And the owner had been a history teacher, I think. She talked a lot, mostly while I worked. She knew a lot about the history of this entire area, every old building, the people. I hate to say it, but I tuned her out most of the time and just let her talk. She was very sweet, a little lonely maybe. Anyway, she told me something about the lighthouse and…” He stopped, trying to remember. “It was something about the family who used to live there.”
He shrugged “But I couldn’t remember it. So I looked on the Internet.”
Her heart quickened, but she remained calm. Had he discovered anything during his search, something that would make sense to her, make sense of her strange dreams, that strange mural on the wall? He stopped and lifted his mug for another sip of beer. She wanted to shake him.
“And?” she asked a little too abruptly.
“And what?”
This was killing her. “What did you find?”
“Just the building plan and the history of Selkie Rock.”
“Oh,” she said, the disappointment evident in the tone of her voice.
What if there was nothing? And where to begin? She might never know if any of what she’d heard so far was true. She thought about tonight and what had happened. All this time, she had been looking forward to going into the lighthouse—excited even. She had no fear of heights or darkness, never had vertigo or anything like it. But once she stepped inside, everything changed. What exactly had happened to her?
Timidly she asked, “Have you ever heard anything about it being haunted?”
“Haunted?” he raised his eyebrows. “No. I don’t think so. Why?”
Bri repeated Chris Cutter’s story.
“Wow, quite a story,” he said. “But people tend to make stuff up. Especially about old boarded-up houses and a dark lighthouse on a cliff.”
It’s exactly what she’d thought then but now? Dear God. She could hardly believe what she was thinking. Haunted? She reminded herself that she hadn’t seen anything—at least while awake.
“It is kind of silly, isn’t it?”
She looked down, her napkin, picked apart, sat in shreds on her lap. It sounded as stupid out loud as she imagined it would. What must he think of her? She wouldn’t dare tell him about the dreams. He, like anyone else, would say they were just dreams, nightmares even, but that’s to be expected when you’re stressed out and living in a new place. She wanted so badly to tell him. Once out there, though, she wouldn’t be able to take it back, and she had to be absolutely sure she wanted it out there. She hardly knew Matt, but for whatever reason, she cared what he thought of her.
Worry etched across her forehead. Matt cocked his head to one side.
“Are you OK?” he asked, looking at her with the same worried expression he had earlier. “You look…a little…”
She inhaled quickly. “I’m OK, really, and I have to thank you for bringing me here tonight. I’m just tired, I guess.” She balled up what used to be the napkin and set it by the water glass. “Actually, I want to thank you for a lot of things. I didn’t mean to keep you so late. This is really what you’d call overtime.” She glanced at her watch. “And you still have to drive back home after you drop me off.”
“Sure, OK, we can go. You’re right. It is getting late.”
She was actually getting to like Matt—a lot. Maybe that’s what she meant by old-fashioned. He was just plain nice.
“Well, I’m still keeping all this overtime in mind when you bill me,” she said.
Overtime, yeah, right. He laughed lightly as he followed her out of the restaurant. I’d hardly call this overtime. He thought.
They had stopped at the grocery store when she remembered a few things she hadn’t picked up before, and once back at Jackal’s Head Point, Matt brought the grocery bags inside for her. He was about to help put things away when she put her hand on his arm and stopped him.
“Matt, you’ve done enough. Really, I can get the rest of these.”
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“Yeah, really. I’m tired, and if I’m tired, then I know you’re tired to the hundredth degree.”
He smiled. “I am.”
If she had an extra bed or even a sofa, she would have insisted he stay the night, but she didn’t, so she walked him out to his truck instead.
She stood just a hair too close as he opened the truck door, and he felt an awkward moment coming on. But then, as if reading his mind, she moved away to stand on the other side of the truck door, effectively separating the two of them physically. Once he was seated inside the cab, she pushed the door closed softly, her hands gripping the top of the door.
“Drive carefully,” she said. Then she added, “I don’t have to tell you that whatever time you want to come by tomorrow is OK. I promise it won’t be as long a day.”
He saw the dimples appear and felt a little rush. It was time to get going.
Bri watched him drive off, turned, and went back inside. Yawning continuously, she started taking the groceries out of the bags. She put the half-and-half, eggs, and butter in the refrigerator and then headed upstairs. She couldn’t keep her eyes open any longer, and for that she was grateful. If she had been less tired and more awake, she might have been more anxious, but sleep was all she wanted, and it came quickly.
CHAPTER TWENTY
&nbs
p; It was dark-too dark to see anything.
Where am I?
From far away came a woman’s voice—high and sweet. Closer now, and it had a strangely calming effect.
Bri tried to make out her surroundings but couldn’t. She tried to sit up but couldn’t. Then she realized that she couldn’t feel the bed under her.
Slowly a light appeared in the darkness, she was in a tunnel. The light grew brighter. Suddenly there was a jolt, and some unseen force began pulling her.
She reached out, trying to stop herself from sliding toward it, but a moment later, Bri had crossed through into the light.
Candles, dozens of them, burned brightly, and Bri recognized where she was: the great room; it was unmistakable. She knew it was the great room, but it was different. There was no cocobolo, no mantel, and then she noticed the woman—the source of the humming.
The woman stood with her back to Bri, facing the mural, except that the mural wasn’t there—at least not all of it. She wore a dress with a tight bodice and a full skirt that dragged on the ground. Big loopy curls cascaded down her back like molten gold, reaching past her waist. The room’s furniture was pushed out of the way, against the wall near the hearth. She noticed a small bowl placed on the floor next to the woman.
Bri watched, transfixed, as the woman swayed rhythmically and hummed continuously. On the wall, she saw the beach and the jungle, but only the beginnings of the crimson sky streaked across an orange horizon were there.
Other than the humming, there was nothing, just an eerie silence as if they were in a vacuum; it almost hurt to hear it. Bri wondered who this woman was, and as she did, the woman raised a hand to her head and brushed an errant strand of hair from her face with the back of one hand. Then with her other hand, she dragged two fingers across the infant sky, leaving a streak of color where none had been before.
That was when Bri saw the woman’s hand covered in the red paint of the sky. The color had run along her arm, it stained the edges of the lace trim of her sleeve. Bri watched as the woman surveyed what she had done and then repeated the motion to cover another patch of sky. She never turned around, never stopped humming, never stopped swaying.